


turn of the world

by keepurselfalive



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Drinking, Friendship/Love, M/M, Touring, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-16 08:34:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18517795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keepurselfalive/pseuds/keepurselfalive
Summary: "Did you just," and he starts laughing, barely able to spit out the rest of his sentence, "pu - puke over the ledge? We're like, five stories up. Freddie!"





	turn of the world

**I.**

 

"Oh fuck,  _gross._ " 

 

Freddie rests his chin on the ledge and lets his arms dangle over. "I am so. Sorry," he calls down to the sidewalk. "Seriously.  _Seriously_." 

 

There are either one, two, or four guys standing there, but in any case, they all look up at him in disgust and sidestep the newly formed puddle of Chinese food and Gordon's vodka that darkens the concrete. 

 

Brian is slumped against the wall with his hair falling over his face. "Did you just," and he starts laughing, barely able to spit out the rest of his sentence, "pu - puke over the ledge? We're like, five stories up. Freddie!" He's speaking with the strange inflections and pauses that construct the language of those who are - 

 

" - fucking drunk," Freddie mutters. He lays his head on the ledge, cheek pressing into the rough brick, and fixes his watery eyes on Brian. He feels. Like he just vomited off the side of a five-story building, almost  _on_  somebody. But he's also getting that peculiar feeling of nothing existing outside of this roof; nothing outside of the gravel against his cheek,  the chill of late September pressing up on the back of his neck, and Brian's foot bumping into his own. 

 

"Gordon is one badass motherfucker," Freddie declares outloud. 

 

"We'll have to write him an extensive thank you letter." The words are slightly slurred, and Brian is red red red; it spreads from his cheeks and down to his neck, and his hands are almost too warm when he reaches out to grab the bottle from Freddie's hand. 

 

**_A._ **

 

_The door to the roof opens with the cringe of rusty metal, and someone says, "Holy shit. I have to drive you two home?"_

_Freddie smiles up at Roger. "Load 'er up," he says. He doesn't even know what he means._

 

**_B._ **

 

_Roger brings them both back to his and Freddie's apartment, steadfastly refusing to make a trip to Brian's._  


 

_Brian passes out almost instantly on the couch, and Freddie stays up for hours watching the way shadows play over his face._

 

* * *

 

 

**II.**

 

"You need more room." 

 

"No, really. I'm fine."

 

"What? God, look at you, darling.” Freddie demonstrates by looking at Brian, who's currently sandwiched between a seat, a cupholder, and a guitar case that wouldn't fit into the trailer. "You're in the fetal position," he adds when Brian shrugs. 

 

"Helps me think." Brian pulls at his hair. It's getting longer now, and he’s finally given up on straightening. "Plus, you know, I'm so fucking tired that I think I could fall asleep while hanging upside down by my ankles above a pit of fire." 

 

Freddie smiles. It's a genuine one, and he finds that the muscles in his cheeks don't hurt as much. "That's a much shittier situation than the van, I've got to say." Brian hmms, then lets his arms flop down to his sides as Freddie shoves a sleeping bag over and lays down next to him. Streetlights shine a yellow glow onto their faces in passing beats . 

 

Brian sighs, quietly enough that Freddie knows it wasn't meant to be heard. Their bodies shift slightly as the van switches lanes; Freddie reaches down and squeezes Brian's fingers. He squeezes back briefly, thumb pressing against Freddie's knuckles, and asks, "where are we?"

 

Freddie cranes his neck and tries to catch a glimpse of passing signs. “Motorway, I honestly can’t tell which one. Could be anywhere, dear.” Brian hmms again.  Freddie stares up at the ceiling, at the skeletons of trees passing in the windows. He always finds that the world looks different this way.

 

**_A._ **

 

_Roger starts chucking stale popcorn at John from the back of the van. Whatever John brushes off, Freddie picks up and tries to get Brian to eat._

 

_"Son, I will pull this van over if you don't cut it out," John says with an exaggerated American accent while staring into the rearview mirror._

 

**_B._ **

 

_Brian eventually gets tired of batting Freddie's popcorn filled hands away, and pulls Freddie into his lap to restrain him._

 

_Brian's a skinny thing, and honestly, Freddie could probably pull away. He just doesn't want to._

 

* * *

 

 

**III.**  

 

Freddie stumbles onto the bus. It's 4 am, and he's sure his pupils are blown wide from whatever little pill they passed his way, and he reeks like booze and sweat. 

 

He also vaguely smells like Paul Prenter.  

 

When he opens the door to the back of the bus, he finds that Brian is still sitting on the couch with his headphones around his neck. They piss Freddie the fuck off because Brian never hears him with them on and he ends up just talking to himself for a good three minutes every time. ("That says more about how much you talk rather than how much I listen," Brian had said once, and Freddie had ignored him until he'd forgotten and asked Brian to please pass the crisps eight minutes later.)

 

"Hey," says Freddie. He closes a fist around the doorknob and holds tight. 

 

"What's up." Brian doesn't take his eyes off the book he has open in front of him.

 

"Nothing much." Freddie clicks his teeth together a few times. And the most stilted conversation award goes to... "You should come over next time. To the party, I mean."

 

"You know I don't really want to," Brian says, a little exasperated. 

 

“Brian. Darling.” Freddie finally makes his way into the room and sits down next to him. "This is...  _The_  most fun tour I've - we've ever been on. You should just. I don't know, join in sometimes." 

 

Brian leans back against the couch and pulls at his curls a few times, like he does when he's nervous. "Freddie, have you. Did you ever think that you were spreading yourself too thin?"

 

Freddie blinks. "Well, I like people," he says slowly, a little defensively. Something about Brian's tone makes Freddie feel like he should be angry, but he feels inexplicably sad instead. 

 

"You _hate_ people - " Brian cuts himself off. "You know what, I don't even know. I'm sorry, I'm just really fucking tired." He scrubs a hand over his face and keeps rubbing his forehead as Freddie leans in to wrap his arm around Brian's shoulders. 

 

Maybe Freddie knows, on some level, what this is all about, because his eyes are already closed when Brian kisses him. 

 

**_A._ **

 

_So it's like this, now._

 

_But then again, maybe it always has been._

 

**_B._ **

 

_It's awkward for twelve days after that. Then four months pass, they're on the other side of the Atlantic, and Freddie realizes that he is a fucking moron._

 

* * *

 

 

**IV.**

 

After two hours of loitering around the tiny hallway, he knocks on the wall next to Brian's bunk and is opening the curtains as soon as Brian finishes calling out a "yeah."

 

Freddie sits down on the mattress and doesn't bother saying hi. "Have you," he starts, then pauses and starts over again. "Remember when - " 

 

Brian looks up at him with an expression of vague confusion mixed with jet lag. “Fred, what are you on about?"

 

Freddie smiles then, and makes up his mind before it goes away. He pulls Brian's arm out from underneath the blanket and curls his fingers over his knuckles, pressing palm against palm. His own fingers are slightly sweaty; Brian's are warm and dry, with Sharpie stains on the side of his thumb. He suddenly  wishes he knew Morse Code; then he wouldn't have to say anything, and it would just be tapping his fingers against Brian's hand until he'd said everything.  _Hey, hi, I'm sorry, I fucked up again, I like you, I love you, please forgive me, please still love me too._

 

"Hi," Freddie says, and smiles again. He can feel his heart beating double-time in his chest. 

 

"Hi," Brian repeats slowly. "Should I be sitting up for this?" And he sits up anyway, before Freddie can say anything. 

 

They sit.

 

(He's still holding Brian's hand.)

 

He doesn't know what to say. He's never _not_ known what to say. 

 

"You know, I think this is the longest you've ever gone without saying anything. Except that time you decided to ignore me for like, a whole ten minutes," Brian says loftily, but his eyes are unblinking and serious, and there, Freddie thinks he's understanding now, maybe. Brian's always been good at figuring out what Freddie means. 

 

When Brian speaks again, his voice is lower and it cracks a little, in a way that practically breaks Freddie's heart, as he says his name. "Freddie?"

 

"Yeah." Freddie tightens his grip. "Yeah. Yup."

 

It's silent again. Then: "You're a fucking arsehole.”

 

Freddie kind of laughs, because really, there's nothing else to do. "Yeah. Yes. I fuck up a lot. You've been there," he adds, stuttering slightly. "Even though that's a pretty terrible excuse."

 

"And now you come around."

 

"I came around before you, darling," Freddie scoffs. "I've just done a lot of dumb shit along the way." And said a lot of stupid shit, God. He doesn't even want to listen to himself anymore. 

 

Brian looks thoughtful, and then weary as he finally says, "I should say 'fuck off', you know."

 

"I know you should," Freddie says automatically. He repeats himself, more quiet this time. "You should."

 

But Brian doesn't. 

 

Freddie knows things are different now, from mindless days and nights in the van, or drunken episodes on rooftops. They're in a whole different country, for fuck's sake. They're more weathered and soft around the edges; more susceptible to hiding away and rubbing their eyes with sore knuckles. They're older, but maybe less wise. At least they've got the money to buy halfway-decent vodka this time. 

 

Different, but still the same, Freddie thinks, as he looks at the way Brian pulls at his hair. 

 

"Why does it always take us years to get anywhere with anything?" Brian smiles crookedly. _Why do we never say things out loud?_

 

_Because we never have to_. "Yes, well. You know me." 

 

When Brian looks directly at Freddie and says, "I do know you," Freddie feels like. He doesn't know. (Like he just vomited off the side of a five-story building, almost  _on_ somebody.)

 

The bus rumbles along the road and they talk and talk about useless things. Freddie whispers a lot and Brian is red red red; it spreads from his cheeks and down to his neck, and his hands are almost too warm when he settles his palm over Freddie's hip. The slow lazy kisses they exchange feel like home. 

 

**_A._ **

 

_After Freddie accidentally hits his head on the wall for a third time while trying to fit his body comfortably in the bunk, there's a sound of curtains snapping open._

 

_"If you guys could stop orgying over there, that'd be great," Roger says loudly._

 

**_B._ **

 

_Freddie wakes up with curly hair in his face and Brian breathing against his collarbone, and thinks, yeah, they're going to be okay now._


End file.
